Salomy Jane eBook

Salomy Jane slept little that night, nor did her father.
But towards morning he fell into a tired man’s
slumber until the sun was well up the horizon.
Far different was it with his daughter: she lay
with her face to the window, her head half lifted
to catch every sound, from the creaking of the sun-warped
shingles above her head to the far-off moan of the
rising wind in the pine trees. Sometimes she fell
into a breathless, half-ecstatic trance, living over
every moment of the stolen interview; feeling the
fugitive’s arm still around her, his kisses
on her lips; hearing his whispered voice in her ears—­the
birth of her new life! This was followed again
by a period of agonizing dread—­that he
might even then be lying, his life ebbing away, in
the woods, with her name on his lips, and she resting
here inactive, until she half started from her bed
to go to his succor. And this went on until a
pale opal glow came into the sky, followed by a still
paler pink on the summit of the white Sierras, when
she rose and hurriedly began to dress. Still
so sanguine was her hope of meeting him, that she
lingered yet a moment to select the brown holland skirt
and yellow sunbonnet she had worn when she first saw
him. And she had only seen him twice! Only
twice! It would be cruel, too cruel, not
to see him again!

She crept softly down the stairs, listening to the
long-drawn breathing of her father in his bedroom,
and then, by the light of a guttering candle, scrawled
a note to him, begging him not to trust himself out
of the house until she returned from her search, and
leaving the note open on the table, swiftly ran out
into the growing day.

Three hours afterwards Mr. Madison Clay awoke to the
sound of loud knocking. At first this forced
itself upon his consciousness as his daughter’s
regular morning summons, and was responded to by a
grunt of recognition and a nestling closer in the
blankets. Then he awoke with a start and a muttered
oath, remembering the events of last night, and his
intention to get up early, and rolled out of bed.
Becoming aware by this time that the knocking was
at the outer door, and hearing the shout of a familiar
voice, he hastily pulled on his boots, his jean trousers,
and fastening a single suspender over his shoulder
as he clattered downstairs, stood in the lower room.
The door was open, and waiting upon the threshold
was his kinsman, an old ally in many a blood-feud—­Breckenridge
Clay!

“You are a cool one, Mad!” said
the latter in half-admiring indignation.

“What’s up?” said the bewildered
Madison.

“You ought to be, and scootin’
out o’ this,” said Breckenridge grimly.
“It’s all very well to ‘know nothin’;’
but here Phil Larrabee’s friends hev just picked
him up, drilled through with slugs and deader nor
a crow, and now they’re lettin’ loose Larrabee’s
two half-brothers on you. And you must go like
a derned fool and leave these yer things behind you
in the bresh,” he went on querulously, lifting
Madison Clay’s dust-coat, hat, and shotgun from
his horse, which stood saddled at the door. “Luckily
I picked them up in the woods comin’ here.
Ye ain’t got more than time to get over the state
line and among your folks thar afore they’ll
be down on you. Hustle, old man! What are
you gawkin’ and starin’ at?”